


Don't Let Me Stop You

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [189]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Bearded Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky in Wakanda, Curtain Fic, Happy Ending, In Which Infinity War Never Happens, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Post-Black Panther (2018), Rimming, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 23:33:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “Look,” Bucky said, “having a beard is a lot different than kissing one, ok?”





	Don't Let Me Stop You

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: [This piece](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c3/8e/70/c38e70e767a45400ec566be39c8fb096.jpg) from the insanely talented petite-madame, a print of which hangs over my desk. It spoke to me this morning.

“It’s the beard.”

“What about the beard?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky raised his head a little, stared down into those familiar blue eyes. “It’s different, I guess.”

“Mmmm.” Steve leaned back in the grass, his hands tight on Bucky’s thighs, his nails digging through the fabric bunched at Bucky’s hips. “Can I note for the record that you’re sporting some pretty fair whiskers yourself?”

“Look,” Bucky said, “having a beard is a lot different than kissing one, ok?”

“Is it, now?”

“It is.”

Steve shifted under him, the swell in his battered khaki fatigues rubbing gently at Bucky’s cock. His grin was goofy now, like he was smashed, and what made it better was that Buck knew he was high not from booze or a good smoke but from the flex of Bucky’s hands on his bare chest, from the sunshine, from the feeling of freedom and joy that seemed to seep from the earth around them. He’d been here two days, just two, and yet already Bucky was having trouble remembering a time when they weren’t joined at the hip in this idyll, all these miles from duty, from history, from their shared, shattered past.

This was something new, Steve with him in Wakanda: wading in the lake together as the sun staggered high in the sky; eating breakfast by the fire as the dog ran in happy circles, anxious to get to work; fucking fiercely in the darkness with the moon on their shoulders, their cries the only sounds in the soft, still night. The beginning, it felt like, of a new chapter at last.

“So,” Steve said. “Are you telling me that you’re not gonna lay one on me again until I shave? Is that what this is about?”

“I never said that.” Bucky cupped Steve’s jaw, stroked a thumb through the neat dark hair. “I just said it was funny, that’s all. Feels different.”

Steve hummed like a big, sun-soaked cat and rubbed his face against Bucky’s palm and Bucky felt him stiffen, felt the tremor of pleasure that shook at Steve’s hips. “Yeah?” Steve said, all punk, despite the big stupid grin on his face. “And you’re just figuring this out now?”

“God, I’d forgotten how much you like putting words in my mouth. I noticed, Stevie, the moment you stepped out of that transport and laid one on me in front of God and everyone.”

A chuckle, a warm bubble of sound that shook them both. “Yeah, well, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you upright and officially unfrozen. You can’t blame me for being a little eager.”

“A little? Kid, you practically mauled me.”

“Pffft. You love it when I get frisky. Remember that time on Coney Island when we went on the Ferris Wheel and I--”

Bucky laughed. “Nearly ruined my dress pants? Yeah, I remember. Had a hard time explaining that one to my date.”

“Mmm, well.” Big hands on his back now, burning almost as hot as the sun. “She shouldn’t have wandered off and left you all alone like that. Bad manners, that was.”

“No,” Bucky said. “You know what bad manners is?”

“What?”

Bucky pitched down and dug his fingers in the grass, draped his mouth a bare inch from Steve’s. “Bad manners is getting me all worked up and then not following through.”

Steve hiccuped, his eyes wide, his expression the same sweet overwhelmed that it had been the first time Bucky had kissed him, the first time he’d backed Steve into a corner in their beat-up walk up and pressed his palms to the wall and bent to lick at Steve’s mouth, gentle, tracing the thin bow of his lips until Steve had clutched at his shirt and pulled him close and panted eagerly between his teeth and by god, Bucky had been a goner after that.

A war, nine decades, and both of them almost dead and still, he melted like wax paper when Steve looked at him like that, like he was everything Steve had ever wanted, the sun and the stars and the moon.

“We should go back to your hut,” Steve said, the words hot and reed thin.

Bucky leaned their lips together, not quite but almost a kiss. “Why? You can have me right here.”

A kick of Steve’s hips, a sweet, needy whine. “Bucky--”

“Bucky what?” He scratched his chin against Steve’s. “You see anybody else around? No, you don’t, ‘cause there’s nobody. Not for two klicks, at least.”

“You--you really want me to--?”

Bucky rocked down, rode himself against the damp fabric stretched thin until Steve’s head fell back with a groan. “Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky whispered against the heat of Steve’s throat, the flush there, the sweet sweat. “You’re goddamn right that I do.”

Those broad arms closed around his waist, held him close, held him tight. “I don’t want to hurt you, Buck.”

Bucky grinned, a shade of sunlight, and turned that big, bearded face down to meet his. “Believe me, baby. You follow my lead and you won’t.”

He peeled off his robe and opened Steve’s pants and turned a full 180, settled himself against that wide, bearded mouth and Steve was groaning into his flesh even before Bucky lapped at his foreskin, teasing back the skin to get at Steve’s rosy, wet head.

“Fuck,” he moaned between Bucky’s cheeks, his grip like stone on Bucky’s spread thighs, his beard a fat, woolen scratch. “Ah, god, honey, _fuck_.”

Bucky laughed, the sound pulled away by the wind. “You come before you’re inside me, Rogers,” he slurred, “and there’ll be hell to pay. You got me?”

Steve sighed something wet and hungry and then he quit his bellyaching and fed Bucky the full shove of his tongue, shut the both of them up quick.

It was filthy, fucking like that out in the open, their palms, their heels, skidding eagerly through the earth and the grass, their grunts and wet, dirty kisses mingling with the soft sway of the trees. The goats were calling to each other, somewhere, the dog’s eyes on them close; far away, Bucky could hear the lap of the lake, the stray of its waves over the beaded rocks that made up its shore. His whole body sang with the peace of this place, of their home, and hummed with a sort of tranquility he’d only snatched glimpses of before: laying in bed with Steve before the war, listening to the wireless, Steve’s head and a cold bear balanced on his chest; tucked together in a tent in the wilds of Vichy France, relearning each other’s bodies in the darkness as quietly as they could; and standing, just for a moment, on the ramp of the Quinjet, Steve’s hand on his shoulder, their eyes locked, the whole of their history captured for a moment in those sharp, knowing eyes.

Steve’s fist found his cock, the long licks curled into a suck, and his grip on sense staggered, his body on sudden, desperate overdrive.

“Enough,” he got out, scratching at Steve’s shins. “Stevie, fuck, please. Stop. _Fuck_. That’s enough.”

A growl, a spin of ground and sky, and he was on his hands and knees in the verdant earth, the love of his life buried inside him, bent over him, muttering sweet things against the back of his neck, panting feverish in the curve of his ear.

“I missed you,” Steve said. “God, Bucky, I missed you so much.”

“Right here,” Bucky said, tried to, throwing his words over the slap of their skin. “I’m right here, baby. You got me now.”

Steve groaned, less hungry that hurt, a blooming bruise of a sound. “Got you. Got you now.” He licked at Bucky’s neck, bit. “Never gonna let you go. Never again.” His hand swallowed Bucky’s cock, straining down, wet.

Bucky cried out, pushed back into that perfect, punishing rhythm. “I’m yours,” he managed. “All yours, sweetheart. Never gonna leave you again.”

Steve’s breath caught--the same, startled noise Bucky had never forgotten, even in those long, cold years when the memory had carried with it only feeling, no meaning--and he came in one greedy punch, his hips slamming home and staying, staying, his balls drawing up high and tight.

Bucky scrabbled at the dirt and shook and when Steve pulled out with a grunt and pushed him onto his back, he went willing, electric, writhing as Steve bent over him, as he felt Steve’s seed slip out of his body and slide into the dirt. He reached for his cock, his whole body alight, and said: “Your fingers, Stevie, I need--”

And then he was full again and Steve was beaming down at him, his beard much darker now with sweat and with wet and when he lost it, felt his spine draw tight like a bow, the look on Steve’s face was like a painting, some ethereal, beautiful god, some creature sent to earth to absolve him, adore him, to carry him loving from one part of his long, strange life to the next.

They lay side by side, after, sunning themselves like snakes, content to be close and watch the turn of a new and yet familiar sky arc up and up, high above.

“I’m so glad that you’re here,” Bucky said. “I hope you know that.”

Steve’s hand found his in the flattened grass and squeezed, his grip like the most pleasant of sighs. “I do,” he said. “But feel free to remind me always and often, all right?”

Bucky tugged their hands up and kissed the back of Steve’s wrist. “I’m gonna say it so much you’ll be sick of it.”

“I doubt that.” Steve bumped their knees together. Bucky could hear the shine of his smile. “But don’t let me stop you from trying."


End file.
